


nothing half so sweet

by rauchblau



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Accidental Confession, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen, M/M, i'm so sorry iwaizumi, literally just mindless fluff, oh my god this is so ridiculous I need to go cleanse myself by reading an orwell essay, the amortentia trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7806889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rauchblau/pseuds/rauchblau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Can you smell something, Iwa-chan?”</p><p>Iwaizumi glares at him. “Maybe I could, if a certain someone wouldn’t habitually drown himself in cologne or some shit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing half so sweet

**Author's Note:**

> I've been going on about a Haikyuu!!/HP crossover for days, and I _will_ write something (a little more) serious about it at some point, but [tumblr user cloudstruck](http://cloudstruck.tumblr.com/) reminded me of the existence of the amortentia trope this morning and it all went downhill from there. 
> 
> Beware: this is as fluffy as a potions classroom can get.

“Can you smell something, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi can. From a cauldron a few tables over, a faintly burnt smell is wafting across that he thinks can’t be what he is supposed to pick up on. Their own cauldron looks alright, though, with dainty spirals of steam curling upwards from the pearly liquid. He bends a bit lower and inhales again; and this time he thinks he’s definitely catching it: the faintest hint of crisp night air, and something warm and coppery that could be broom polish. It’s obscured by a heady and familiar scent, though, which makes it hard to identify others he doesn’t know he’s looking for.

“Iwa-chan?”, Oikawa prompts again, irritatingly chipper and insistent.

Iwaizumi glares at him. “Maybe I could, if _someone_ wouldn’t habitually drown himself in cologne or some other shit.”

Oikawa’s head whips up so fast he probably gives himself a crick in the neck. On the table to their right, Hanamaki and Matsukawa abruptly stop bickering about whether fresh creampuffs are a scent worthy of Amortentia, and turn to stare at him in eerie synchronicity.

A beat of silence envelops their group.

“It’s my shampoo, Iwa-chan”, Oikawa says, voice low. “Not cologne.”

“I don’t care what it is”, Iwaizumi retorts roughly, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny of three pairs of eyes. “It’s everywhere – seriously, did you bathe in it this morning?”

“Yes”, says Oikawa, sounding faint, “that’s what one usually does with shampoo.”

Hanamaki lets out a snort before covering his mouth and ducking into Matsukawa’s shoulder. He’s shaking with what appear to be fake sobs, or maybe with violently repressed laughter. Matsukawa is fighting to keep a straight face. Oikawa’s grip on their table has turned his knuckles white.

Iwaizumi looks at them, pale against the wood littered with scuffs and burn marks, looks at Hanamaki’s barely-contained glee, and suddenly feels like maybe he should sit down.

“Shit”, he breathes.

He thinks of Oikawa’s little nose scrunch and the way he wraps both his hands around hot mugs like he’s cradling something precious, thinks of an edge of fierceness bleeding into his voice, of innocent blinks slow in a way that tells of too many hours spent hunched over a telescope, the carelessly elegant angle of a wrist thrown out in a curse, the warmth in his chest when he returns to their dorm to find Oikawa sprawled on his bed, face buried in Iwaizumi’s pillow, asleep. The soft pink of lips that curl and twist and quirk with an easy expressiveness, the barely-there sigh Oikawa makes when he turns to let Iwaizumi deal with Kyoutani on the pitch that means _take over, I’m done here_ , the neatly folded notes he flicks onto Iwaizumi’s side of their desk during class. Of sneers hiding kindness and smiles hiding sharp edges, of pitiless observation, of the smooth curl of his voice that makes Kindaichi stand straighter, the conspiratorial tone that coaxes a flicker of acknowledgement into Kunimi’s eyes. He thinks of a boy gripping a broom, the same boy gripping another broom, spine straight, they win, they lose, when Iwaizumi cards a hand through Oikawa’s hair he pushes back into the touch.

A lot of things are falling into place all at once. The impact is dizzying.

Maybe he is steadied only when Oikawa leans in close and reaches up to put a hand over Iwaizumi’s mouth, gently but firmly. It’s smooth and cool and smells of the dried mint leaves Oikawa has been crushing earlier. His breath is warm on Iwaizumi’s cheeks.

“That was not romantic at all”, Oikawa murmurs. “Please try again.”

Iwaizumi feels a noise pulled out of him, something between a huff and a laugh; and then Oikawa draws back, apparently unfazed, and goes to deliver a neatly corked vial to their teacher. He leaves Iwaizumi strangely light-headed, but grounded in the way Oikawa always grounds him, outrageous and wonderful.

Matsukawa returns from the front of the classroom first, wiping his hands on his robes. He makes a beeline for Iwaizumi’s seat and stops, long body bent at the hips as he casually leans against the table.

“You know, we had a wager on how many girls in this room would get the smell of our golden boy’s hair or his dirty quidditch attire or whatever. But you, my friend, have made us proud today.” And he pretends to wipe a tear from his eye.

In Iwaizumi’s peripheral vision, Hanamaki gives him an exaggerated thumbs up.

“We are not having this conversation”, Iwaizumi says.

Oblivious, Matsukawa pushes himself off the table. “Ahh”, he sighs to Hanamaki and spins in a lazy circle, his robes swirling, “there’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream.” He falls heavily into his chair, expertly ignoring the curious glances from other tables as well as Iwaizumi’s glare. But he catches the amused tilt of Oikawa’s mouth and holds out a hand to let their palms brush in what must be the most unobtrusive high five Iwaizumi has ever seen anyone engage in.

“Well?”, asks Oikawa when he slides back into his seat. “Have you found something more appropriate to say?”

Iwaizumi is still thinking of the high five and what it betrays. It helps a little to steady his eyes from where they keep wanting to skate off Oikawa’s face.

He jerks his thumb in Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s general direction. “Remind me why I am friends with them.”

“Ahh, Iwa-chan”, Oikawa sighs with the air of someone whose patience has long been tried, “wrong yet again.”

Iwaizumi flicks his forehead.

Oikawa yelps.

“That’s no way to treat your boyfriend!”

“Boyfriend?”, echoes Iwaizumi. He is proud that his voice doesn’t crack on the word, both because he really feels that it shouldn’t be said so entirely out of the blue, and because, amidst the beginning clamour of the potions class packing up their ingredients, Oikawa’s hand is brushing over his under the table, just fingertips on knuckles.

Oikawa gives him a shrug and a disarming smile. “Your Amortentia smells like me. Many successful relationships have started out from less.”

Iwaizumi thinks that the third smell distinguishable could well be described by the sight of Oikawa’s eyes widening, almost imperceptibly, when Iwaizumi turns his palm up and curls his second finger to catch Oikawa’s in answer.

**Author's Note:**

> (Oikawa’s Amortentia smells like brioche, ozone, the wood of a beater’s bat, and the scent of green on Iwaizumi’s hands)
> 
> Why is Matsukawa quoting [old love poetry](http://www.bartleby.com/333/356.html), you ask? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
